


Islands and cities I have looked

by Argyle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dreams, Drunken Shenanigans, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-15
Updated: 2011-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:05:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur was drunk. And Eames was a gentleman (he told himself this), or was at least an alumnus of the James Bond School of Bastardry, Connery-era. There were expectations about that sort of thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Islands and cities I have looked

The thing was-- the thing _was_ : Arthur was drunk.

And Eames was a gentleman (he told himself this), or was at least an alumnus of the James Bond School of Bastardry, Connery-era.

There were expectations about that sort of thing.

 

One: for the bulk of the job, Eames didn't bother flirting with Arthur. This was mutual. In fact, it was apparently all Arthur could do to spare Eames two words and a wary glance. Then forty-eight hours before the end of it, when they were both strung-out with sleep deprivation, and both quite alone in the warehouse by that boring time before four in the morning, Arthur was rubbing that neat, tender flesh between his eyes, and just for the hell of it Eames took Arthur's hand and dashed the pad of his thumb across Arthur's knuckles. Then Eames leaned in and kissed Arthur's brow.

A small puff of Arthur's air escaped his mouth, and was gone.

Eames waited a moment. He didn't really know why. He hadn't thought very far ahead; or in fact, at all.

Then he had said, "We should get out of here. Get some rest."

"Yeah," said Arthur.

They locked up and left. Separately.

 

Two: even with his hair mussed, even with his tie undone (along with enough buttons to expose the pale hollow of his throat), even with that fucking fuck-me _smirk_ made of scotch and too-red lips. Well, especially then, Arthur was a bit of all right.

And then again, it was Eames' best scotch.

"What's the occasion?" Arthur asked, before. He stared down into the proffered glass, then took it and waited for Eames to pour out a fat finger of it for himself.

"Oh," said Eames. And forgiving himself the cliche in advance: "Does a man need an occasion to dote upon himself?"

Arthur shrugged. He raised his glass. "To close calls."

"Not that close, I hope."

They clinked glasses, only for the sound of it. Both their hands were steady.

The amber liquor scarcely trembled.

Arthur sipped his, suddenly thoughtful. And Eames threw his own back, just because he could, because for all his pandering, it _had_ been a close call, and because he knew the flavor well enough. He also knew the flavor of the Anderson Valley Cab Sauvignon Ariadne brought along, and that of the gin and tonic Arthur had taken to ordering up from the barkeep every half hour or so. The bar was well-stocked, but Arthur had his favorites.

Eames knew this.

Another few hours in, and Arthur took to ordering one for each of them.

For once, Eames was glad he'd stayed with the team long enough to celebrate another job, at least complete if not well done.

Arthur's own presence at these things was incongruous enough.

In a rare show of generosity, their extractor had let the penthouse of a lower Manhattan high-rise just for the occasion, and Eames took no pains to hide his admiration of the place. He was no architect. He knew people, not places. But this -- this was someone's dream made real. With that sort of power, why would anyone need to meddle in worlds ephemeral?

Eames retreated to the balcony, stared down to the street, then up to the starless sky.

"You all right?" This was Arthur.

Maybe it was just a trick of the darkness (or what passed for darkness there), but Arthur seemed to be smiling. Not for the first time, Eames thought he could forge that one simple quirk of flesh and mind; use it on himself: he could do that too.

He did.

 

Three: also, Eames was drunk.

And he was well-prepared to be more-so. He took the still half-full bottle of scotch in one hand and Arthur's elbow in his other, and with all the subtlety (the stuff of legend, that) he could muster, he hustled the lot into a lift marked _Down_.

The door had scarcely shut before Arthur's hands were in Eames' hair, and Arthur's mouth was nipping at Eames' throat, and Arthur's whole weight was pressed into Eames until Eames was held tight to the wall.

"In the lift? Really, my dear," said Eames, "have I just uncovered a fetish?"

"Shut up." Arthur's mouth closed back over Eames'. "You don't know anything."

 

Later, much later, Eames woke up. But he didn't open his eyes at first. Through the low haze of what he wouldn't yet diagnose as a hangover, he took stock of the basics.

It was morning, or nearly.

It was raining. The windows to his side thrummed with each wet, heavy impact.

And he was by himself.

"Hey. You all right?"

Or nearly.

Now Eames did look up: Arthur, still bed-headed but more well done-up than he'd been the last time Eames had seen him, leaning against the in-suite's door frame. Brushing his bloody teeth.

Eames grunted. "I'll live."

This was to stall things. He really-- well. He couldn't _remember_ much else of the last time he'd seen Arthur. The previous night, collapsing onto Eames' bed with Arthur in tow, check. Scotch, check. But damn him, Eames felt his stomach sink at the thought that he might've missed-- again: well. Forgotten whatever it was they'd got up to, after.

Misplaced a simple bit of information that shouldn't've meant shit.

"I ordered coffee," said Arthur. He sat on the edge of the bed, which was really quite a long way away from where Eames himself was heaped. "Should be up in a few."

"Yes," said Eames. "That's good."

"I mean, I'm not sure why you're awake, anyway. You were pretty fucked up. You know that?"

Eames knew it. "Look--" he started, then stopped. Arthur was putting his shoes on. To Eames' side, the sheets were pulled back, and the pillow still retained a faint, head-shaped indentation down its center.

It was like pulling off a plaster. Like falling, just like falling. "Look. Arthur," said Eames. "Did we in fact have the most mind-blowingly fantastic sex of our lives last night?"

Arthur's eyes narrowed. Then, yes, there was that smirk again. "Fuck off, Eames."

The door pulsed with three short knocks. Arthur paid the tip for the coffee -- the coffee itself went on Eames' account. Arthur, Eames noted, took milk and no sugar: in the glass mug it was off-brown, ashen, but Arthur drank it down gratefully.

Three cups of his own later, Eames felt almost human again.

 

It wasn't until they were out of the lobby, hailing cabs, that Eames felt fully himself. And better. All it took was Arthur, almost as an aside, but with that same smile: "See you around? I mean-- When will I see you?"

 

The next time, it was the same, or almost.

(Only it was night again. Only it was a dream.)

Eames knew the taste of Arthur's gin and tonic because he lapped the remnants of one from Arthur's lips, his tongue. This lasted a while. But it wasn't enough -- it never could have been. And neither could it have been for Arthur, if the way he fumbled with Eames' shirt buttons was any indication.

"I want..." Arthur panted, frowning down at his fingers, then splayed his hands on Eames' chest. Eames could feel his own pulse in a steady push-pull against them.

"What," said Eames. "Tell me. I need to hear it."

"I want this, Eames. I want _you_."

And Eames was not beyond vanity. "How long?"

Arthur shook his head, half-puzzled. "Isn't _now_ enough?"

Eames supposed Arthur was right, but he didn't say so.

They took turns undressing each other. Eames' shirt, then Arthur's, a button or two torn off between them, then shoes and socks and trousers and the rest.

Arthur led Eames through a door: the city didn't follow them. Eames was never one for nature, but this thing Arthur did -- the big white bed in a glinting brass frame set on an even piece of ground, all of it, and both of _them_ , set smack in the middle of a deep swath of woods -- this wasn't without style.

But it also wasn't exactly _Arthur's_ style. It lacked pinstripes and leather, and it was certainly without hemlines. Eames wondered, vaguely, whether Arthur thought he was doing Eames a favor by bringing them out of doors. Perhaps it was, in fact, something of a neutral ground.

Eames wanted to ask Arthur this. Wanted to, but forgot.

In Eames' defense, there was an awful lot of Arthur to appreciate right at that moment.

 

"What happens now?" asked Eames, later. He wondered if the moon would ever come up. There was a fine mist over everything, an inky haze between the too-tall trees, but the sky was black.

Arthur had tucked his face against Eames' shoulder, but he made a noble effort to reply. "We wake up," he said. Or, if Eames was feeling generous with the translation: "We'll make it."

But then, that was just how dreams worked.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the XX's [Islands](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PElhV8z7I60&ob=av2e).


End file.
